


Sweet Sixtieth

by ColinFilth



Series: The Black Prince [2]
Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Bondage, Breathplay, Dirty Talk, Erectile Dysfunction, Face Slapping, Future Fic, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Temperature Play, Wax Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-12-13 01:25:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11749215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColinFilth/pseuds/ColinFilth
Summary: On July 21st, 2020, in the deadly, sticky Madrid heat, Harry Hart turns sixty.Sixteen days after that, by the sea and under a stormy, grey weather, Eggsy Unwin has had enough of him being a bitch about it, and takes matters into his own hands.





	Sweet Sixtieth

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday to B, who's the wind beneath my porny wings. ❤️
> 
> This is what happens when, on a Sunday at 6, you decide to write a dear friend "a little birthday ficlet"; and when you let others convince you to sneak kinks in there. Mostly written on my kitchen floor, entirely unbetaed.
> 
> Written as set in the universe of my fic [_The Black Prince_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6637963?view_full_work=true), but no knowledge of it is necessary; and no, you won't be spoiled. :)

 

This year, they spend Harry’s sixtieth birthday in Madrid on business. If Eggsy thought July in London was miserable, in Madrid it is scorching, the air dry and hot and still. He can’t breathe half the time, either because of the suit he finds himself poured into or simply because of the weather. At night Eggsy can’t sleep because of the whir of the air conditioning, and during the day he can barely stay awake enough to swat the numerous bugs away. He understands one word out of five and can’t even will his cock to stop getting hard for Harry when he speaks Spanish with what Eggsy is told is an Italian accent. If the sun won’t kill him first, Harry will. Thankfully most of the galleries they are confined to have air conditioning, but there are interviews and meetings in bars and offices that Eggsy remembers as Inferno and Sauna.

By day six Eggsy has taken enough selfies to make his mates jealous for a year, drunk enough cocktails that he feels bad about it, smoked more pot than he cares to admit, and officially can’t count his mosquito bites with the fingers of his hands anymore.

Oh, it’s been fun. Loads of it. Meeting people, eating fucking delicious food (scrumptious, the Harry in Eggsy’s head says, the Harry that would get kicked out if he didn’t tell Eggsy how pretty he is all the time) et caetera. They’ve been to the ballet once, and he fucked Harry twice. Once in the gigantic shower of their suite’s bathroom, because of course. Once for his birthday because Harry’s favourite present is still cock, unwrapped and hard. It had been a great birthday that involved ridiculously tarted-up leche frita, as Harry had put it, delivered by room service with a single candle as Eggsy had requested; then a long, long blowjob to get Harry good and hard so Eggsy could play with his cock while he fucked Harry nice and slow.

There was no need to make a fuss over Harry turning sixty, so Eggsy didn’t. Doesn’t. He smiles and takes sips from Harry’s glasses in an act of sympathy for his liver, which is partly why he’s been pissed as shit for the past six days.

Ten days to go, Eggsy thinks, and he fits his head under the tap to run cold water on the back of his skull and down the nape of his neck.

“I hate you.” Eggsy tells Harry when he walks inside the reception room of the suite. Harry is sitting on an armchair in slacks and a vest, soaking in the cool air before they have to leave for dinner. “Oh fuck it’s so nice in here.” He fans himself with a room service menu, closes his eyes.

Harry is reading the paper, no doubt looking for mentions of the exhibition. “Whatever for?” He asks.

“I’m full of hot rage. You’re here, so I hate you.” Eggsy mutters in answer. He flops down on the floor next to Harry, sets his forehead against Harry’s knee. “So I’m getting sweat on your trousers.”

“So you are.” Harry answers placidly. Eggsy knows he’s being unfair, that Harry suffers from the heat as much as he does.

“M’sorry.” he mumbles.

“Mmh.” Harry leans down, strokes Eggsy’s wet hair and pushes it off his skin with soft, cool fingers. “My poor love.”

Eggsy blinks at him and smiles a little. Can’t really help it. He stretches his neck, hums in contentment when something cracks satisfyingly, then again when Harry touches the side of his neck. Eggsy makes an approving little sound in the back of his throat. It’s all very promising, the way Harry is running his knuckles slowly along Eggsy’s jugular.

“We have to leave in less than fifteen minutes.” Harry murmurs.

“Shit,” Eggsy groans, “Fuck, hell.” He rubs his face against Harry’s trousers. “I hate you.”

Harry tuts at him, scratches the side of his neck for a second, and gets up. Eggsy follows when Harry dislodges him on the way up. “Technically I do not have to be there.” He says as he walks away. “It would not be out of place for your old lover to stay home in such hot weather.”

“You’re not old!” Eggsy calls after him. Harry ignores him. To the empty reception room and the hum of the air conditioning, standing barefoot on the thick rug in his shorts, Eggsy says, “I hate this.”

Nine days to go and they don’t even start the night cuddling, let alone finish it.

Eight days to go, with a good attempt in the morning during Harry’s shower. Eggsy invites himself inside to lather up Harry’s back and thighs then thrust lazily against his arse, but he finds Harry’s cock soft and Harry himself frustrated and snappy.

Seven days to go, a waitress spills a glass of water all over Eggsy’s shoulder and he can’t even find it in himself to be angry, except when it dries in minutes.

Six days to go, Harry misses a step, trips and falls in the middle of Madrid. He is barely scratched, but he acts like he needs to review his will urgently. Eggsy trusts Merlin enough to know he’ll nip that in the bud, and kisses Harry’s ankle and palms better.

Five days to go. Eggsy gets into a shout with the poor night manager when he sneaks a spliff in the pool area at two in the morning. Shame, then full mini of rum, then more shame, but reeking of rum this time.

Four days to go and Eggsy runs out of film and can’t seem to find any. He snaps at Harry when the poor sod is just trying to ask him which type he needs exactly so he can translate to the best of his ability. More shame, no rum, useless wank alone in the shower.

Three (and a half) days to go finds Eggsy opening all the windows at one in the morning, waking up Harry and giving him a nice drawn-out blowjob. Three days to go and Eggsy wakes up at eight to Harry’s mouth on his cock. It’s a good day.

Two days to go. They get wine-drunk in a little bar a few minutes from their hotel, Harry smokes three of Eggsy’s cigarettes over a few hours, and locks himself in the bathroom to shower alone. Shame, cigarettes, more shame, but reeking of smoke this time.

One day to go, which of course includes more interviews than Eggsy could care for, especially given the interpreter gets stuck in traffic and everything drags on two hours late. They go to bed early with headaches. Harry swallows a caplet of paracetamol with a swig of minibar whiskey, so Eggsy follows suit.

On the day of as they pack up Eggsy groans at the mountains of dirty laundry he is piling up in the suitcase.

“Ain’t even going to be much better in London.” Eggsy mutters sullenly, wiping sweat from his brow. “Could you help?” He asks Harry loudly. “Half this shit is yours, or dirty ‘cause of you.”

“Do you want to go to the Pennings?” Harry says suddenly. Eggsy stills, debates berating him for not paying attention, and then thinks of the sea.

“Ain’t George and all there for two more weeks?” He frowns, staring at a lone sock before stuffing it in a corner of the suitcase.

“Rebecca fell and broke her arm. They are going back to London early. George wants to know if we’d like him to keep the house open.”

Eggsy turns to face him. “Fuck yes!” He crows, crawling on the bed to get to the other side where Harry sits. “Not his granddaughter breaking her arm, don’t tell George, that’s shit, but yes. Do you wanna?”

Harry sighs out a Yes and Eggsy lets him push him back on the bed for a proper little snog. They check out six minutes late.

They fly home as planned, but on the cab ride to the Mews Eggsy looks up the train schedule on his phone and books them tickets for the very evening. Harry is quiet the whole ride, the entire time they are home, and only opens his mouth at Victoria Station to suggest they get some dinner.

“Is everything okay?” Eggsy asks as they peruse WHSmith’s sad selection of to-go meals. Harry is staring at the nutritional value of a Coronation chicken sandwich and hums vaguely in answer. He sets it back in the fridge, so Eggsy rolls his eyes and grabs it. He adds a tuna and cucumber sandwich for himself, waters for them both, a packet of crisps to share, and gets in the queue at the registers before Harry can protest. “Be miserable if you want, but I ain’t listening to you bitch about pre-packaged salad dressing for an hour and a half.”

Harry, of course, doesn’t say anything.

Their train doesn’t depart for another twenty minutes so they have a cigarette outside the station before heading to the platform. The train is nearly empty. It’s just past seven on the first Sunday of August, and Eggsy spends the whole trip looking out the window or watching Harry doze off against the headrest of his seat.

They reach Eastbourne a little bit before nine and walk through the tiny station almost in a daze. Eggsy yawns, calls for a taxi, and lights a cigarette while they wait. Harry is blinking at the rapidly darkening sky almost owlishly.

“Oh you need a rest, don’t you.” Eggsy mutters, handing Harry his smoke and leaning against a barrier. “Poor babe.”

Harry huffs out a cloud of smoke, shakes his head, and hisses, “I am hardly a babe anymore.”

Oh well there that is.

“Did you turn six or sixty?” Eggsy asks him, taking his cigarette back to pull on it nervously. Harry rolls his eyes. “Six. Gotcha.”

Harry doesn’t have time to answer (with something probably riveting and snappy, Eggsy’s sure) before the cab gets there. Eggsy hastily bins the smoke, grabs their suitcase, and hauls Harry into the car.

The view off Marine Parade never gets old, the spill of the sea beyond shingle beaches and the crooked white ribbon of the cliffs, barely visible at that time of night. The driver bitches about driving in the little patch of wilderness on Upper Dukes Drive past nightfall, but Eggsy lets him rant and tells him to keep the change on the tenner he hands him.

As planned, Harry’s family has left the house open but drove back to London already. Everything is clean and silent, not one city sound to be heard halfway up the cliffs. It’s almost cold up here, but Eggsy doesn’t turn on the heat and sits next to Harry on the sofa when he drops down on it inelegantly.

Eggsy lays a hand on Harry’s thigh before asking, gently, “Do you want anything? Hungry? Thirsty?”

Harry shakes his head and sighs. “I’d love a finger of whiskey,” he says, “If I may.”

He may, so Eggsy pours him a small finger, minuscule, newborn-sized, really. He sits back down next to him and runs fingers through Harry’s hair, traces the curve of his ear, the lines of his jaw. “Better?” He asks once Harry has had a drink, and he leans in when Harry nods.

His mouth tastes like whiskey and cigarettes, something that shouldn’t be attractive but somehow is. Eggsy kisses him deeper, better, runs his hand up Harry’s thigh again. Through the fabric of his slacks Eggsy can feel the warmth of his body, the way his muscles go tense in anticipation when Eggsy slides his hand lower, going for the sensitive inside of Harry’s thighs.

“Do you want to go to bed?” Eggsy whispers into his mouth.

Harry doesn’t even finish his drink.

It feels wonderful to be able to touch again without feeling like he’s about to burst into flames, so Eggsy takes advantage. He wonders if Harry missed it or if in his pity party he craves touch even more, and pushes Harry towards the bed until he gets the message and sits down dazedly.

“There we go.” Eggsy murmurs, burying fingers into Harry’s salt-and-pepper hair. “D’you want to talk about it?”

Harry shakes his head no. He leans forward and pushes his face against Eggsy’s taut belly, nuzzles at his navel and noses under his loose t-shirt to press a kiss there.

“I am exhausted from that hellish Spanish weather.”

“And being a bitch about turning sixty.”

“Yes.” Harry mumbles. “And being a bitch about fucking turning sixty.”

“Look at it this way,” Eggsy says, moving to sit in Harry’s lap, “That elaborate plan to pickle yourself in gin worked.” Harry laughs, more of a huff and a shrug than anything, so Eggsy tries again. “You’re so gorgeous.” He murmurs, pulling on Harry’s hair just so and kissing him more deeply.

Harry’s hands move from Eggsy’s hips to cover his back. He sweeps his palms once, twice, before slipping them under Eggsy’s shirt to touch his skin. Eggsy arches under his touch, cants his hips to dig his half-hard cock into Harry’s belly. He knows how much Harry loves it, the promise of an erection pressed against any part of his body.

But his hands don’t stray far from Eggsy’s back. He pushes Eggsy closer, and instead of using one of these skilled hands to jerk Eggsy off he pushes his shirt up to kiss his chest properly. Politely, Eggsy shrugs off his shirt, lets it fall silently on the floor. Harry’s eyes run over his torso, his collarbones, his freckles. By now he knows what Harry likes particularly about his body, but it never fails to amaze Eggsy to see just how steadily hungry Harry is for him.

“Maybe you can sketch me tomorrow,” Eggsy whispers, “If you’d like that?” He rocks his hips again, strokes Harry’s hair, his forehead.

“Mm-mh,” Harry says eloquently, and he closes his lips around one of Eggsy’s nipples.

All of Eggsy’s good intentions fly out the window when all the blood available to his brain rushes to his cock. He moans and grinds more insistently against Harry’s stomach. Usually Harry turns his attention to his prick quickly enough, but this time he keeps sucking, his arms around Eggsy’s middle, one hand up between his shoulderblades and the other gathering a good handful of his arse.

“Shit,” Eggsy moans, “Harry. Harry.”

Every little suck sends a stab of pleasure down to his bollocks. Eggsy fidgets in Harry’s lap, tries to find a better angle to properly rub off against Harry without dislodging his mouth, cries feebly and pulls on Harry’s hair when his teeth graze his nipple.

“That’s it.” Harry pushes on his arse, encourages him to use his body to get off the way he always does, happily and gorgeously. “Tha’s it, Harry, oh fuck-” Eggsy licks his lips. He rolls the words around in his mouth to taste them, sweet and sharp like lemon sherbets, before letting them spill out. “Go on, babe, suck on them, there you are.”

When Harry turns his attentions to his other nipple, Eggsy takes advantage of the minute loss of contact to push on Harry’s shoulders. He shushes his protests and encourages him to lay down on his back, leaning in for a kiss before pulling away, much to Harry’s discontentment.

“Do you want my cock?” Eggsy asks when he’s halfway out of his trousers and done with Harry’s; when Harry is sprawled naked on the bed with his dick a little less than half-hard and his lips red and plumped. “God, you’re so handsome, stop that.” He mumbles distractedly when he crawls back over Harry to kiss him. “Your mouth is so red,” Eggsy marvels, “So warm, so soft. Just want to push my knob inside and watch how well you take it.”

“Come up here, Eggsy, please– that’s it, there you are, pet, give it to me–”

Eggsy silences him with a mouthful of dick. He’s straddling Harry’s face, holding onto his hair as he feeds him a bit more before pulling back. His mouth is hanging open as he watches his cock slide between Harry’s lips, the obscenity of it disappearing inside Harry’s mouth.

“Here we are.” Eggsy swallows, closes his eyes because he can’t keep them open anymore, opens them because he can’t bear to miss anything. “That’s what you wanted, didn’t you.” He angles himself differently, thrusts against the silky inside of Harry’s cheek to feel his glans pushing through the skin. Goes back inside deep, fucks Harry’s mouth until he’s not too sure Harry can even breathe anymore. “You take it so well, Harry. So good.” Eggsy pulls out for a few seconds to check on Harry, thumbs at his sore, swollen lips and moans when Harry greedily sucks his fingers inside. “Harry,” he breathes. Puts himself back in position and places his sticky glans against Harry’s lips. “C’mon. Take it. That’s it, open up…”

Harry’s eyes are dark and glazed over. Eggsy can’t look away. He wants to take picture after picture of Harry like this, mouth full of cock and hair full of fingers. Framed by his thighs. It’s Harry’s thing, telling Eggsy how beautiful he is, watching him dreamily when Eggsy fishes out a blob of jam from his tea. It’s what he does, stares at Eggsy like he’d made of marble and then touches him slowly and preciously like he’s marvelling at Eggsy’s moles and blemishes. It’s all a bit flattering and way too much most of the time. Especially when Eggsy stares back, through one of his cameras or with bare eyes.

Especially given how unbelievably gorgeous Harry himself is. Eggsy wonders sometimes if it would be different if Harry wasn’t Harry Hart, Royal painter with sketches dropped in every borough of London, educated in Florence and Camberwell. If he’d latched on something other than his father’s watercolours – his mother’s books, his brother’s numbers, his uncle’s travels, his grandfather’s past in the army…

Perhaps then Harry would believe the sharp twist of his expressive lips, the lovely darkness of his eyes, the length of his legs and his hands, the sweetness of the age spots starting to bloom on his skin. As things are, it falls down to Eggsy to remind him, so he does.

“So good,” he babbles, “Harry, babe, I can’t believe how good you feel.” Eggsy groans, raises on his knees to withdraw his cock from Harry’s mouth. His glans brushes over Harry’s lips and he chases after it greedily, his fingers digging into Eggsy’s arse in his haste to urge him closer. “My thighs hurt, can we–”

Eggsy flops on his side on the bed next to Harry, rolls on his back and spreads his legs invitingly. Harry follows, makes himself comfortable and hums in contentment when Eggsy buries his fingers in his hair again.

“I’m close.” Eggsy breathes deeply, lets his toes curl against the sheets. “Do you want to swallow?” Harry nods, already mouthing at the wet head of Eggsy’s cock. Eggsy fits it between his lips and pushes down on Harry’s head. “Shit. Harry. You’re so good to me. So fucking sexy.” Eggsy groans, lifts his hips off the bed and thrusts, once, twice. “Fuck–”

Eggsy forces his eyes to stay open even as he comes, so he can stare at Harry’s face, his lips, the length of his body. When he pulls out he catches a glimpse of his spunk on Harry’s tongue, groans, and flops back on the bed. Distantly he hears Harry cough and grumble as he swallows. Eggsy lets out a deep little laugh, feeling light and lazy, his skin prickling in oversensitivity.

“Hey,” Eggsy murmurs, stroking Harry’s mussed-up hair, “That was ace. You’re so good to me.” Slowly, Eggsy raises his leg, brushing fleeting toes to Harry’s thigh, his arse. Smiles. “Turn over.”

“Ah,” Harry says, his voice somehow sounding well-fucked and contrite at the same time, “I am not – there is no need to–”

“Did you really?” Eggsy croons filthily, sneaking his toes under Harry’s hips. His smile falls when Harry pushes his foot away. “Harry?”

“This is not a matter of did I, rather will I.” Harry nuzzles Eggsy’s belly, presses a kiss to his navel. “Don’t worry your head over it.”

Eggsy sighs, wraps his arms around Harry’s head and stares at the ceiling. “It happens,” he tells Harry gently, “It’s happened before, you’re exhausted from today–”

“Sixty bloody years o–”

“Yeah, sixty years old, Harry.” Eggsy breathes deeply. “And I’m twenty-eight. That sort of thing tends to happen to human beings who stay alive.” They stay silent for a bit. Eggsy is starting to feel sticky and uncomfortable. “Wanna take a bath with me?”

Harry nods, once, twice, and clambers off to the closest bathroom. Eggsy straightens the bed and follows, finds Harry staring at the mirror and studying his profile. Eggsy crosses his arms and waits for Harry to notice him. His little startle when he does is utterly delightful, and Eggsy is quick to wrap his arms around Harry to draw him in a kiss.

The bath is amazing, not too warm but not tepid either. The tub is big, but small enough that they have to move slowly and end up crowded against each other more often that not. Eggsy washes Harry’s back, the inside of his thighs, shampoos his hair and cleans his face. He loves doing this, running soapy fingers all over Harry’s skin. It feels so intimate to touch the ripples of skin at his eyelids, the tight furl of his arsehole, the grey hair at his temples, the soft pale skin of his armpits.

So close to the sea they can go to bed in each other’s arms comfortably, the window cracked open, a light blanket thrown over their tangled legs. The next morning Eggsy finds the room grey and cold, tiptoes out of bed to shut the window and the drapes. It’s hardly 7, but Eggsy brushes a kiss to Harry’s forehead and ventures downstairs for tea and breakfast. By the time Harry wakes up and joins him in the kitchen, it’s pissing rain, and Harry is shivering in his pyjamas and robe.

The weather doesn’t get much better the entire week. The first two days Eggsy loves it – the conservatory smells of petrichor and he spends hours just laying there in the old wicker chairs. But then he starts getting restless, and Harry isn’t exactly helping. He’s been spending hours in his mother’s old study, working on sketches and ruining his eyes in the tiny dimly-lit room. By day three Eggsy creeps upstairs after smoking half a joint out in the garden during a brief moment of sunshine.

“Looks like it ain’t going to rain for a bit,” Eggsy tells Harry’s back, the tense line of his shoulders slumped over the desk, “Want me to call for a cab? We can go to the pier, have some chips. I’ll buy you a 99.”

For a second Eggsy thinks Harry will say No, Eggsy, thank you. Instead he gets up and turns to smile at Eggsy and say, “Of course.”

Half the outing is lovely, up until the point where it starts raining not five minutes after they finish their ice cream. And not a drizzle – fat raindrops that pelt the sea and them alike. They find refuge in an alcove off the seaside walk, crowded on a bench next to a pair of old people in bright red plastic ponchos. They’re talking in loud Northern accents that somehow cover what could be the peaceful sound of the rain still coming down hard.

“Jesus Mary Joseph, it’s cats and dogs and all of Noah’s ark, Harry, isn’t it?” The woman goes, and Eggsy laughs at the same time as his Harry gets up and leaves.

“It figures that we would share the same name, we could have gone to fucking primary school together.” Harry mutters as he strides towards the bandstand to stand moodily under the concrete pathways.

“Harry, come on,” Eggsy laughs, crowds Harry to brush raindrops off his hair, “He was at least ten years older than you.”

The weather remains grey, and so does Harry’s mood. They phone for a cab back up to the Pennings, where Harry locks himself in the ensuite off their bedroom for a shower.

“I’m sorry I took you out!” Eggsy calls over the rush of the water. “The rain ain’t my fault, and neither is you turning sixty!” The water doesn’t stop. “Fucking hell, Harry, I know you can hear everything from here.” Still no answer.

Predictably enough, Thursday goes much of the same. The night before they went to sleep arse-to-arse, and the morning of Eggsy spitefully underbrews Harry’s tea. It serves no purpose, as Harry tips a finger of scotch in it when he thinks Eggsy’s not looking. He doesn’t say anything.

The rain from yesterday has slowed but it is still drizzling relentlessly. Eggsy opens the conservatory doors wide and sits on a wicker chair with his tea and his toast to smell the scent of wet earth and trees. The greenery is gorgeous, the fog thick. He thinks maybe if the rain lets down for a minute he’ll go up to the cliffside with his cameras. It’s sure to be deserted in this weather save for pairs of Good Samaritans. Eggsy is considering bringing a spliff to smoke up here when Harry pads inside the conservatory in his slippers. He’s carrying his cup of tea and a plate of eggs. Thick steam rolls from them in the cold, humid air, and he looks stupid and regal in his red velvet robe and cashmere slippers.

“You’re gorgeous.” Eggsy tells him, because that’s true. He smiles at Harry around a bite of toast.

Harry shakes his head and fiddles with his eggs with the teeth of his fork. Eggsy expects You are ridiculous, or So are you, maybe a simple Thank you. Instead Harry says, “Have you got your eyes checked recently?”

Eggsy blinks at him, folds his leftover toast to finish it in two bites that get stuck in his throat, and gets up. “You wanna be an arse? Go ahead, but you’ll have to do it on your own.” He stalks out the conservatory and leaves his cup in the sink without washing it.

When Eggsy comes home late in the afternoon after a day spent dodging rainstorms on the cliffs, Harry is still sulking. He’s gone and shut himself inside his mother’s study again. Eggsy doesn’t go upstairs, but he sticks a frozen lasagne in the oven for tea, and leaves a plateful for Harry on the kitchen island. In the recycling bin sits a bottle of port Eggsy knows was just bought on Monday.

“Shit,” he tells the bin, “Fuck, hell.”

Night is falling outside, but Eggsy doesn’t turn on the lights. He putters around the house restlessly, noses into the storage rooms on the ground floor, switches the telly on to flick through seven channels and turns it off. He ends up smoking a second joint in the conservatory and gets high enough to let his mind entertain him on his own.

Of course, as it has been the case for the past few years, his mind goes back to Harry after a minute of so. Eggsy groans, considers a boredom wank. He flicks mindlessly through PornHub for a bit, but somehow his tastes have turned into Posh Old Painters Who Wear Suits To Breakfast. With a specific preference for a glorious specimen currently sulking up the stairs. Eggsy gets it, really, he does. His mum freaked when she turned forty. The proof turned six this year.

Mate needs to get off, Eggsy’s clever, lit brain tells him.

And never let it be said that weed doesn’t give Eggsy the very best ideas.

The next morning, Eggsy wakes with Harry sleeping next to him. He hadn’t heard him come to bed last night, but Harry doesn’t even stir when he slips out of bed quietly.

Eggsy pads downstairs to eat handfuls of Harry’s grandnieces’ leftover Krave cereal out the box, and plot. He makes himself tea quietly and watches the garden out the kitchen window. It’s chilly inside the house, but outside the grass is pale with morning dew and the sky white and heavy. Eggsy finds a juice box in one of the cabinets and makes Harry tea and toast, considers a tray but instead brings it all up in his hands and opens the bedroom door with his elbow. Harry is still asleep, curled up on his side in his pyjamas. He’s kicked the sheet and comforter down in his sleep, but now he’s shivering a little. Eggsy watches him for a second before sitting on the side of the bed, leaving Harry’s breakfast on the nightstand for now.

“Harry,” Eggsy says softly, “Wake up, love. I’ve brought you tea and toast.” When Harry groans and curls up on himself a little tighter, Eggsy runs a hand up and down his back. “Babe, come on. I have plans for today.”

“What sort of plans?” Harry grumbles at last. Eggsy shuffles out of the way to let Harry stumble to the ensuite to use the loo. While he’s gone Eggsy folds the sheet and the blanket at the end of the bed and pats the pillows. “Thank you,” he tells Eggsy when he returns, sitting next to him to drink his tea.

“I want to tie you to the bed.” Eggsy says, and Harry chokes on his tea.

“Of course,” Harry coughs out, “That sounds entirely reasonable.”

Eggsy smiles at him. “Don’t it just?”

While Harry eats his breakfast Eggsy rummages through the old clothes Harry keeps at the Pennings. He finds an old dark silk tie, wraps it and unwraps it around the palm of his hand a few times as Harry blows on the surface of his tea. They’ve done this before, but this time it feels more serious. At least what Eggsy’s got planned feels like it. Harry looks at him warily over the rim of his cup.

“Your idea of a lovely Friday is tying up an old man to his bed.”

“Yeah!” Eggsy says brightly.

“Well.” Harry drains his cup, brushes toast crumbs off his lap. “Go on then.” Eggsy approaches slowly, kisses him at first. He waits for Harry to relax, for his hands to come up and cup Eggsy’s face like he’s not entirely sure Eggsy’s not about to laugh and walk out. Eggsy kisses him, nice and slow, mouths hot with tea and sweet with sugar and honey. He loves those morning kisses that taste like breakfast and home. Part of him wants to keep going forever, sweep his plan off the table and throw Harry on it instead for a proper snogging session. “I have been horrible to you these past few days,” Harry murmurs against his mouth, “My dear Eggsy. I was disastrous.”

And then the part of him that’s holding the tie remembers, Oh yeah right he fucking was.

Eggsy backs away just enough to undo the buttons on Harry’s pyjamas. “You were.” He agrees lightly. He can’t resist leaning closer to push kisses to Harry’s throat, his collarbones. “Don’t think I can help you?”

“Have you got a time machine? Some fountain of eternal youth, perhaps?”

“Don’t get a portrait done though,” Eggsy mumbles into Harry’s skin, “I know the reviews are good but it don’t work.”

That gets Harry laughing a little, so Eggsy smiles. “Would not recommend?”

“Well that’s how I met my bloke,” Eggsy answers against Harry’s jaw, “So, yeah, I would.”

Harry sighs, “Eggsy.” A little disbelieving, a little chiding; so Eggsy kisses his mouth before he can say anything too daft, and steers them back on track.

Eggsy pushes Harry’s sleep shirt off his shoulders and throws it somewhere off to the side, so used to Harry’s protests he hardly even hears them anymore. Harry agrees to being pushed back on the mattress, though, and looks up at Eggsy with hungry eyes when he gathers both of Harry’s wrists to tie them to the headboard.

“You’ve made progress.” Harry notes, going a little cross-eyed trying to follow Eggsy’s fingers are they wind the tie around a convenient groove in the carved headboard. “Who showed you? Please don’t say Merlin and Grace–”

“Please, you’d ask for pics,” Eggsy snorts, focused on the whisper of the silk as he runs it over and under Harry’s wrists, “One of Roxy’s birds, actually. Helen? She painted her last year, the dommy girl with all the birds?”

“So that’s your late nights working.” Harry whispers dryly, eyes closed now.

Eggsy leans down to kiss his forehead, the tip of his nose, his stubborn mouth. “That’s my lunch with Roxy at the pub and the four pints afterwards with her and Helen.” He goes back up to check his handiwork, fusses with the final knot a little. “Good?”

Harry moves his wrists, his arms, his shoulders. “Good.” He’s a vision like this, pale in the cool morning light, hair messed up by sleep and kisses. Eggsy can picture him in the ensuite, wetting his hands in the sink to run them through his hair almost nervously.

People don’t get to see him like this, pristine and filthy in their sleep-warm bed. People know these hands as the artist’s tools, as gifted limbs that Eggsy alone is allowed to wrap in silk like jewels to keep them unmoving. There is something that feels dirty at the picture Harry makes, this elegant man half-nude looking so submissive, the expensive silk tie wound around his wrists binding him to the expensive-looking bed he is laying on. Eggsy wants to take his camera and fill up an entire roll with today, wonders if Harry would let him for a few indulgent seconds before he moves back.

“Hang on a bit, babe,” Eggsy tells him, “Just want to open a window, yeah?” Harry hums inquisitively, so Eggsy shushes him. He takes off Harry’s pyjama bottoms, kissing his way down after the waistband. “I’ll be right back.”

Eggsy drops the trousers on the floor and opens all the windows in the room. As predicted, it’s cold and windy outside, rain keeping the air thick and humid. Eggsy breathes in the sea and turns around.

“Do you trust me?”

“Of course.” Harry is frowning, curious, concerned. “Eggsy–”

Eggsy tilts his head to the side. “If you trust me, then,” he says slowly, calmly, “Why didn’t you talk to me instead of snapping at everything?” Harry sags, pinches his mouth. “Ask me to untie you and I will. Do you trust me?”

“Yes.”

He doesn’t ask Eggsy to untie him, so Eggsy doesn’t. He walks over to Harry to kiss him and stroke his face, once, twice. “Ask me to untie you and I will.” He repeats. Harry doesn’t so much as blink. Eggsy finds Harry’s cellphone, unlocks it, places it within reach of Harry on the headboard. “Ask me–”

“I heard you just fine the first two times, Eggsy,” Harry tells him drily, “Shit, I’m sixty, not deaf.”

Eggsy bites his lip to hide his smile and leans in. “You wanted to be alone and miserable?” He taps at Harry’s restrains with a knuckle, gestures at the open windows letting in the cold sea air. “Happy birthday, love.”

Harry doesn’t make a sound as Eggsy leaves the room in a few too-casual strides. He’s not entirely sure he’d hear anything, mind; his heart is pounding in his ears so loudly it feels like a bee’s gone and found a way into his skull.

Ten minutes, Eggsy tells himself. It takes him three tries to light his cigarette, only to realise he’s got the wrong end in his mouth and has melted the filtre. “Shit fuck hell.” He switches the fag for another, focuses for half a second, and pulls blissfully on the cigarette. Rain is pelting the glass exterior of the conservatory, and that’s a thought, he should have found a way to drag Harry outside in the rain to leave him out like a disobedient pet. Eggsy would have collected him back small and wet with rain, shivering cold.

As things are, when Eggsy walks back up the stairs, trying not to catch the creaky steps, he’s shivering. He tightens his hold on the soft, fluffy throw he’s picked up on the sofa in the drawing room, and walks inside their bedroom to face Harry.

“Eggsy,” Harry groans when he walks in. Without a word, Eggsy shuts the windows and pulls the curtains halfway. He wraps the throw around his shoulders like a cape and takes off his clothes, tiptoeing on the cold wooden floors. “Eggsy,” Harry repeats when Eggsy joins him on the bed, “Oh, you feel so lovely.”

Eggsy kisses Harry’s cold nose, shifts to tangle their legs together. He laughs when Harry pushes his freezing toes against his warm calves and endures the shock gladly. “Ain’t that better?” Eggsy asks him, arranging the throw over their joined pile of limbs.

“I despise the heat,” Harry whispers almost dreamily, “When it is as hot as it was in Madrid, it keeps my hands off of you.”

“We’d have melted otherwise.”

“I think perhaps some of my brain did.”

Eggsy hums noncommittally. “And now your hands are off me anyway.” Harry doesn’t laugh, but Eggsy feels the rumble of it in his chest, pressed against his. “How are your arms?”

“A little sore.”

“Just move down a bit–” Eggsy pulls away, drapes the blanket over Harry and helps him lay further down the bed. “Don’t bend your elbows so much, there we go – better?” When Harry nods, Eggsy strokes his body through the blanket. “Be right back.”

In the upstairs storage, Eggsy quickly finds a space heater. He brings it back under Harry’s curious, almost hopeful eyes, and plugs it near the bed. He takes a few seconds to warm up his hands before directing the airflow towards Harry, who sighs gratefully. Eggsy smiles and digs through his camera bag to find one of his magpie treasures from Madrid, barely used, the white candle from Harry’s birthday treat. His lighter is in his pack of smokes, as usual. His boyfriend is still tied up to the bed.

“Seventeen days ago,” Eggsy begins as he sits back down in bed next to Harry, “Harry Hart turned sixty. For the past sixteen days, he has been a bitch about it.”

As if to prove a point, Eggsy rips the soft throw off Harry’s prone body. Even with the space heater on, he recoils. Eggsy shushes him and sets his things aside for a minute before covering Harry’s body with his own. He kisses the soft silk of Harry’s bindings, then the mess of his hair, the wrinkles on his forehead. He brushes feather-soft lips to Harry’s eyelids, fragile as his dear butterflies and at least as fast when he blinks to stare at Eggsy with that ever-present marvel. Eggsy cups his face, angles it to kiss Harry good and deep. When Harry turns his head after some excellent, toe-curling snogging, it’s only to nose at Eggsy’s palm and kiss the inside of the signet he still wears on his left hand.

“I love touching you and seeing my hands on your skin.” Eggsy tells him in a low voice, rubbing his thumb over Harry’s lips, his stubble. Harry’s nipples are still a little hard from the cold, so Eggsy kisses them too, runs his tongue over them on his way to Harry’s cock. “I love your knob.” Harry groans, and Eggsy continues before he can interrupt to say silly things, “I do. I think, sometimes, about what it’d have been like if we were the same age, if I’d been your age in the eighties instead of being, you know, not born yet.” Eggsy kisses the flaccid head, nestled cosily inside the foreskin. “When you were a slutty little fag who sucked dick in cottages ‘round London.”

“Oh God.” Harry breathes, pulls on his restraints. Eggsy looks up to see his face. He’s laying there with his chin tucked into his chest, watching Eggsy with half-lidded eyes. They close when Eggsy looks straight into them and sucks on Harry’s bollocks. “Shit, Eggsy.”

“But instead I get this.” Eggsy says, “Same wonderful mouth, same gorgeous hands, same great dick.” Speaking of, Harry’s getting a little stiffer, his cock twitching under Eggsy’s mouth. “But with forty-three years of experience.” He cups Harry’s cock, tries to cajole it into hardness. “Can you believe how lucky I am?”

Eggsy isn’t really expecting an answer at this point. Instead he moves back to sit between Harry’s spread legs, and leans over him to grab candle and lighter from the nightstand.

“Sixteen days, as I was saying.” He plays with the lighter, strikes the stone a few time to create sparks. “Think you can take sixteen drops of wax for me, love?”

Harry breathes. Nods. “Anything.”

Everything goes still and quiet as Eggsy wills himself not to shake and lights the candle. Harry’s eyelashes flutter when the first drop of hot wax hits his skin, and Eggsy’s mouth drops open. He lets the second one fall on Harry’s belly to see it contract, then a third, fourth; a fifth one under his bellybutton.

“So good,” Eggsy murmurs, “Harry, love, you’re so good, so handsome.” He can’t resist matching drops on both of Harry’s nipples, then the eighth one in the middle of his sternum. “Halfway there. It looks gorgeous on you.” What it looks like, the white wax on Harry’s pale skin, is spunk. Eggsy’s cock is hard. When did it get hard? He almost misses the ninth drop of wax – near exactly in the dip between Harry’s collarbones – and heads back south for the rest. “You take it so well, babe.”

Harry is breathing loudly, almost panting, shaking on the sheets. He whines when Eggsy lets the tenth drop of wax fall on the soft inside of his left thigh, nearly sobs at the matching one on his right thigh. Breathes, breathes, breathes when Eggsy can’t help but repeat the same pattern again, eleven, twelve. Thirteenth and fourteenth go on each of Harry’s hipbones. Eggsy feels too hot, his fingers burning from holding onto the candle, his pulse beating in his prick. He lets drop number fifteen fall on Harry’s sternum again because he knows he won’t expect it – he’s right, Harry startles and stifles down a shout – and stares at Harry’s interested cock.

The sixteenth drop of hot wax falls a scant few inches from the root of Harry’s dick, and he cries out and blinks his eyes open. Eggsy meets Harry’s dark, nearly mad eyes, and holds the candle out in front of him.

“Make a wish.” Harry’s cool breath is lovely on his fingers, and Eggsy is quick to discard the candle. “Want to blow something else?”

Harry laughs, feebly and a little hysterically, but Eggsy shuts him up by straddling his face and stuffing his leaking cock inside his mouth. Bless him, he hardly even chokes. Eggsy groans, already close to coming, moans sticking to the back of his throat. He pulls out after a few good thrusts and moves away to straddle Harry’s chest. Harry blinks at him, his heart beating a mad tattoo under his skin. “Are you going to come on me?”

Eggsy tilts his head to the side, smiles. “Yeah.”

“Please.”

It’s horrible to pick a place to look, Harry’s wrists pushing against the silk or his red mouth or his wax-covered torso. It’s even worse to try and decide where Eggsy wants to come.

In the end he slaps a hand over Harry’s bound ones, and comes when Harry clumsily grabs Eggsy’s fingers in his. “Eggsy,” he breathes, head tilted to the side to watch Eggsy strip his cock over his chest and his throat, “Eggsy. Please.”

“Whatcha want?” Eggsy mumbles. “You want this?”

He pushes through the building ache in his thighs to put his cockhead back inside Harry’s mouth and give him those last few drops. Harry sucks eagerly, still fighting against his restraints. When Eggsy pulls out, his dick spent and sated, Harry gives the most pitiful, raw little moan of displeasure. Eggsy lays down next to him to kiss his abused mouth, his swollen lips.

“How’s your arms?”

“Sore,” Harry says, “Uncomfortable.”

Eggsy unties him and kisses his wrists, every single one of his fingers. He folds Harry’s arms back against his chest, asks, “Do you wanna eat something? Drink?”

Harry shakes his head feebly, eyes at half-mast, dark and hungry. His body is tight and nervous with energy and anticipation. When Eggsy runs a hand on his belly Harry’s thighs fall open to draw attention to his half-hard cock. Eggsy smiles, strokes Harry’s hips, sweeps dried-up wax and spunk off his skin.

“Eggsy.”

“Thank you,” Eggsy answers, “For letting me do this to you.” Harry fidgets, feebly grabs Eggsy’s wrist to pull it to his cock. Eggsy laughs, jerks him off slowly for a bit, still reeling a little from his orgasm. He bites his lips, looks at Harry’s reddened face. “I ain’t over yet.”

“Aren’t you now?” Harry murmurs, wary and wondering. Eggsy hums in answer, thumbs at Harry’s foreskin.

“Another perk,” Eggsy says, “Is that it takes a bit for things to get perky, don’t it.”

“Eggsy–”

“I love it. Feels like I’m a bit important, like I can get you hard.”

Harry sighs, turns his head for Eggsy to kiss his mouth. “You really do.”

“I like taking my time with you.” Eggsy kisses him again, long and languid. “Ain’t in a hurry. Wanna get you good and hard.”

His own cock is starting to get interested again, which hardly ever happens anymore, but hey. Eggsy isn’t going to complain. Nothing ever gets him as hard as Harry, whether he’s actually there or not. Back when they’d just met he remembers combing through results for gay older man with jock and any variations he could come up with while one of his hands was down his shorts. Eggsy hadn’t needed to since 2006, but just for Harry he wanked with no material other than his thoughts and Harry’s stolen signet ring. It seems like a compliment right now, when he’s holding Harry’s half-hard prick, so Eggsy tells him.

“I used to think about you even before, when I wanked, before we got together.” He says it quick and low.

Harry smiles. “Which time?”

“Arse. All of them.” Eggsy kisses him again, then another time, then just one more. He was right; Harry’s awfully pleased. “Did you?”

“Once,” Harry whispers against his lips, “Just once.”

And now Eggsy has to kiss him again. “I thought about kissing you all the time,” he mumbles against Harry’s mouth, “Was all I wanted sometimes.” He legs go of Harry’s cock, climbs over him and slots a thigh between Harry’s legs so he can feel his dick harden. “Your fucking mouth…”

Kisses. Eggsy slowly rocks his hips against Harry’s, whines into his mouth when Harry lifts a hand to grab a handful of his arse. More kisses, the slow slide of his tongue against Harry’s. Eggsy cracks open his eyelids to take a glimpse at Harry’s face and finds him looking back the same way. He laughs, knocks his nose against Harry’s, kisses him again.

The space heater is still on, the room too warm now. It must be well into morning by now, the sun creeping hotly into the bedroom. When Eggsy noses into Harry’s neck he finds it damp with sweat, the skin trembling with how fast Harry’s heart is beating. Eggsy presses kisses to his pulsing artery, his throat, against the shape of his Adam’s apple and the burn of his day-old stubble. He can feel Harry’s cock stiffen further with every kiss, every slow push of Eggsy’s hips against his. He could do this forever, he thinks, just kiss Harry and feel his cock get harder and harder. It has no right to feel so good, the slick slide of Harry’s hungry mouth against his, the wetness of his tongue when it peeks out from between his tender lips to find Eggsy’s. Harry’s fingers are digging into his arse, short nails biting into his skin.

“I want to fuck you,” Eggsy gets out around a copious amount of kisses, “Want to open your arse for me and fuck you.”

“Yes.” Harry’s cock is properly hard now, and he seems to be getting a little mad with want. “Eggsy…” He adds tightly, a little warningly.

Eggsy shushes him. “I got you, okay? Trust me.”

“I do,” Harry says when Eggsy gets up, “I really do.”

Why does that make Eggsy’s dick just a little bit harder? He trips over his own feet on his way to their suitcase, where he stashed a condom and some lube. He throws the johnny over his shoulder at Harry, and gets it right in the chest when he turns around and Harry Frisbees the condom back at him.

“Come back here,” Harry says, “Do whatever you feel you need to do to my arse to fit your cock in it, and fuck me.”

“Should tie you back up,” Eggsy mutters as he clambers back on the bed after turning off the heater, “You’re getting bossy again.”

It’s a good sign, really. Eggsy’s glad.

So is the way Harry’s cock is plump and hard under his fingers when he jerks him off a little, the cold bottle of lube stuffed between his thighs. Eggsy bites his lip when the fat gland pops out from under the taut foreskin. It looks too good to resist, red and silky, so Eggsy bends down to suck it in his mouth. Harry arches off the bed and moans, driving a good mouthful between Eggsy’s lips. He chokes out a laugh, runs playful nails down Harry’s ribcage.

“Do it again.” Eggsy looks up, hums inquisitively as well as he can with a mouth full of dick. “Go on. Scratch me.”

Harry gasps and his whole body jerks when Eggsy does, driving his cock deeper and sending Eggsy in a coughing fit. He laughs, coughs, tries to keep jerking Harry off with one hand and digs the nails of the other into his skin. “Sorry,” he chokes out, “Sorry, could’ve used a bit of a warning, yeah?” He goes back up to kiss Harry, runs his nails down his neck this time. “So you liked it.”

“Suffice to say.” Harry mutters into Eggsy’s mouth. “Will you fuck me now?”

“Yeah,” Eggsy answers faintly, moving lower to gather the lube and his wits, Yeah alright.”

He coats his fingers, uses one hand to spread Harry’s arse open and strokes the warm skin there, soft and hairless, tight and intimate. “Oh, dear, darling Eggsy,” Harry breathes, “I love feeling your fingers in my arse.”

“There we go.” Eggsy mutters. “Why’s it that you say the weirdest shit when you have stuff up your arse?” He works Harry open nonetheless, slicks up his hole nice and good.

“Eggsy. Give me your cock.”

“Oh my God.” Eggsy knees Harry’s thighs open further, makes himself comfortable between them. He slicks himself up, can’t resist rubbing his greased cockhead against Harry’s hole teasingly. “Tell me what you want.”

Harry pants, raises a hand to beckon Eggsy closer and kiss him, brief and chaste. “I want your cock in my arse,” he says, all in a rush, “I want your nails in my skin and your mouth on mine.”

Eggsy kisses him when he pushes inside, or at least tries to. Harry keeps babbling against his mouth and Eggsy can’t focus on anything other than Harry’s arse around his dick and his body under his. Harry’s legs come up around his thighs, pull him closer, urge him deeper.

“Fuck me,” Harry whispers against his cheek, “Ah, your prick fits so well inside my arse, Eggsy.”

“Shut up,” Eggsy kisses onto his mouth, “You’re a fucking freak.” He grinds into Harry’s arse, feels Harry’s dick grow wet and sticky with precome between their pressed bellies. “You close, ain’t you?”

Harry nods. “That feels so nice, Eggsy, keep, keep fucking me…”

“Tell me.” Eggsy pulls out, drives back in. He grabs a handful of Harry’s hair to pull his head to the side and kisses his neck, his jawline, his ear. He digs his nails in Harry’s scalp and repeats, “Tell me. Tell me how nice it feels.”

It’s a dangerous question to ask Harry when he’s stuffed with cock. “Feels so full. I was made with room for you, my dear Eggsy.” He doesn’t even flinch when Eggsy puts a hand over his mouth, just sucks on his fingers and tightens his hold on Eggsy’s thighs. “You asked me–”

“People don’t say shit like that.”

“Well,” Harry says, blinking Bambishly at him, “That’s how nice it feels. Your cock feels divine–”

“Nope.” Eggsy gives him a playful, dismissive slap on the cheek, chokes on his breath when Harry gives him that look. “Yeah? Fuck, you’re a freak.”

“Says the man who – oh, that’s so good,” he murmurs when Eggsy angles his hips differently and pulls on his hair again, “Says the man who had me tied to the headboard like a misbehaving dog.” Eggsy digs nails in the soft skin under Harry’s ears and drives deeper, just to prove a point. “Who dribbled wax on me and shoved his prick inside my mouth–”

“You loved it.”

“I did.” Harry answers, turning his head to look at Eggsy properly. “But perhaps I’m not the only fucking freak.” Eggsy gives him another slap, a bit harder this time. “You love this. You are loving this, I can feel how hard your pretty cock is for me–”

His words are cut off by a gasp when Eggsy slaps him again. He moves impossibly closer, fumbles to lay his forearm on Harry’s throat, not putting any pressure yet. “Will this make you stop saying weird shit?”

“Try.”

Harry starts laughing a little hysterically when Eggsy does, so he eases off, but one of Harry’s hands comes up to push on his arm. Eggsy’s mouth dries up, his cock pulsing inside Harry’s arse. He pushes, his hips stilling. Harry’s eyelashes flutter shut but a smile stretches his lips. Eggsy starts moving again, the pressure he keeps on Harry’s throat decreasing when he can’t keep paying attention, then increasing when he just grinds into Harry’s arse mindlessly. He eases off, buries his fingers in Harry’s hair instead and touches his forehead to Harry’s.

“I’mma come soon,” he says softly, tightly. Harry kisses his lips, brushes his nose to the tip of Eggsy’s, “Harry, you feel so good, you’re so good, so gorgeous…”

“You,” Harry breathes, “You, love, I cannot believe how well you fuck me.”

“Tell me,” Eggsy grinds out, feeling the building pressure in his bollocks, “Touch your dick, and tell me you love it.”

"I love it," Harry babbles obediently, "Please fuck me harder." He phrases it like Eggsy has an option, like he could walk away. There's no way, not with how tight Harry's legs are around his waist. Not with how good he feels. "Push your cock deep in my arse, Eggsy, harder–""Shut up, shut up." Eggsy slaps half-heartedly at Harry's face. It only serves to allow Harry to suck on his fingers. "You make no sense.""Your cock makes no sense," Harry counters, "How can it feel so bloody good?"

“‘Cause of you,” Eggsy murmurs, “S’all your fault.”

Harry laughs. Eggsy can feel him working his dick, his hand tight between their bellies. He moves away to watch it, the practiced slide of Harry’s fist up and down his leaking cock; then the slide of his own prick in and out Harry’s arse. He loves the obscenity of it, how dirty it looks. Pushing thirty, balls-deep in his boyfriend’s arse. Maybe it’s not dirty, but Harry makes it plenty dirty on his own.

Eggsy’s hardly even listening anymore. “– I want you to push your cock in my hole and come inside of me, I want you to make me raw and wet, that’s it, Eggsy, my dear, darling Eggsy, use my arse–”

“Shut up.” He grinds once, twice, breathes.

“Come inside me,” Harry babbles, his hand a blur over his prick, his eyes dark and big and seeing nothing but Eggsy.

“Tell me–”

“I love you.” Harry says, and this is the most vanilla moment of Eggsy’s life, right here, fucking his boyfriend who’s over twice his age and sporting binding burns on his wrists, who’s covered in dried up wax and Eggsy’s dried up spunk; and only coming when said boyfriend tells him I love you.

He fucks Harry through it, nails digging into his scalp as much as Harry’s heels are digging into his thighs.

Eggsy pulls out probably too quickly to Harry’s tastes, who’s probably telling him how much he wants to keep his cock inside him forever or some other freaky business. He’s all forgiven when he goes back to Harry’s dick to take it in his mouth, judging by the greedy fingers Harry threads through his hair. Harry doesn’t need much – he gasps and thrusts shallowly into Eggsy’s mouth a few times before he comes, his entire body going rigid, his mouth open but silent for once.

“Eggsy,” he says afterwards, when all is swallowed and done, “Eggsy, come here, pet, come here.”

Slowly, Eggsy crawls up to gather Harry’s tired body in his arms. He kisses the top of his messy head, wraps an arm around his neck. Harry kisses his throat, his clavicles. “Harry,” Eggsy protests when Harry’s mouth finds his nipple and starts sucking, slow and gentle but steady, “Can’t go again for a bit.”

“No, there is no – just like this,” he whispers against Eggsy’s chest, lips shaping words over Eggsy’s skin, over his fast-beating heart, “Just this.”

Harry runs mindless hands over Eggsy’s body, keeps his mouth attached to Eggsy’s nipple. After a few short minutes the sensation settles and Eggsy closes his eyes.

“Feeling better?” He asks around a yawn, petting Harry’s hair.

Harry sucks silently, worries Eggsy’s nipple between his teeth gently until Eggsy gives him an irritated hum. “I loathe to admit I was feeling bad,” Harry says, “But yes. Thank you.”

Eggsy gives his nest of hair another kiss. “We have to shower. This is disgusting.”

“Later.” Harry tells him dismissively, pressing a distracted kiss to Eggsy’s nipple. He finds Eggsy’s other hand somewhere stuck between their sweaty bodies, brings it up to kiss the gleaming gold of the signet ring. “We have all the time in the world.”

“Yeah,” Eggsy murmurs tiredly. He rubs his chin against Harry’s head, closes his eyes when Harry starts sucking on his nipple again. The house is empty, and nothing seems to exist outside their warm bed. “We really do.”


End file.
